


Fields of Asphodel

by luciferswhiteloafers



Category: Hannibal (TV), Hannibal Lecter Series - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, flowery prose piece, sexytimes in there somewhere
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-16
Updated: 2013-06-16
Packaged: 2017-12-15 03:12:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,265
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/844632
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/luciferswhiteloafers/pseuds/luciferswhiteloafers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Greeks told the tale of Persephone and jealous Hades who wooed her to the Underworld. Now Will Graham sits at Hannibal's table eating pomegranates and thinking about his own lonely god and how he came to make such a deal.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fields of Asphodel

Will stares at the dripping flesh of the pomegranate on his fork, allowing his vision to haze out of focus as the gaping maw of his mind pulls him further from the table before him. He thinks of Persephone, finally granted the chance to return to her home and family, only to taste the succulent seeds of the Pomegranate and the bitterness of her possessive lover's curse. He thinks of Hannibal and of the slow, twisting darkness that festers in the pair of them together. Every elegant, organic meal the good Doctor has ever fed him may as well have been the cursed fruit of the underworld, for all the staying power their chef has upon him, body and soul. 

There is distance between Will and Jack, between Alana and Will. Whispers pass his ears that this has not gone unnoticed. It was all inevitable, really. The well-meaning pair of them may as well have opened up the door to hell themselves, serving him to the King of the Underworld ripe and ready for consumption. All his fear and doubt, self hatred and gossamer walls of defense were chum in the water, a sealed invitation to devour his heart with smiling, bloody teeth. 

Will Graham knows all these things, knows them better than he knows the time of night or the exact circumstances that led him to Hannibal's table tonight. And still. 

And still he knows he will remain, appreciatively enjoying whatever delicacies will follow this salad, after coffee and dessert, until Dr. Lecter takes him upstairs to the dark wood opulence that is his master bedroom. After which, he will do as he has done before and take Will apart to a cellular level, ridding him of any doubt as to who is in control of the situation. He will shush all of the younger man's pleas, divesting him of clothing and careful mental fortresses as though they were but spider's webs in his path. His strong, blunt fingers will drag hard lines of searing warmth from the delicate skin of Will's throat down to the cut of his hip, concentration as pristine as if he were selecting herbs for a dish. 

Hannibal will tend to Will's body in ways that seem impossible to process, too many neurons firing at once, dopamine and oxytocin zinging along his frayed nerves, dragging more attachment and affection in their wake, his shaking legs gripping Hannibal's waist in a desperate plea for more contact. For deeper, longer, just more. Their mouths will crash together like clanging cymbals, giving and taking breath in the last electrified seconds of their coupling. 

 

Sometimes in those final moments blue eyes see through red ones and instead of feeling the desperate clench of his body around Hannibal's broader one, suddenly he is reveling in the feel of his own strength manipulating a willing body, scenting the heady, acrid arousal that suffuses the pale, shivering skin under his palms. It is difficult to ignore how simple it would be to snap his lover's delicate neck or sink his teeth into the tender flesh there to sample the mouthwatering bouquet beneath. This passion is fueled into harder thrusts and a firmer grip on sharp hip bones, leaving marks they will both think of for days. When he is Will again he reminds himself that everyone has sexual proclivities. He himself thinks of death in most things.

Will stares at the pomegranate and knows he should consider the price they will both pay one day, one of too horrifying a scale to even contemplate. He knows he should think of how many pieces of himself he has given this man without being asked outright. He is appalled to think of what he would sacrifice if Hannibal did ask. He thinks of a lifetime in hell.  
He finally brings the fork to his mouth, hoping that his contemplation took less time than it felt like.

"Dear Will, you look famished. May I offer you another course?"

And then the spell is woven again, the dragon's mist flowing from his mouth as Hades beckons Will back down to the sweet oblivion of their shared world. Then Hannibal is at his side, clearing the place setting to make room for more. The proximity of every stitch of tailored fabric and the pervading heat beneath sets Will's nerve endings alight. He notes the flight impulse, the recognition from prey to predator that whispers from the back of his mind about all of the darkness that must surely lurk underneath the steely control and elegant veneer. 

Where Will often feels clumsy and awkward Hannibal makes it seem like every step, every breath and every kiss is premeditated down to the tiniest detail, leaving nothing to chance. Being who he is comes with the knowledge that the people best at hiding things can conceal a thousand leagues of secrets whose weight would crumple most people. He used to wonder what this true Renaissance man saw and felt when he looked at Will. An elaborate puzzle box perhaps, or maybe a particularly skittish colt with underlying promise. Now it he knows it’s nothing so simple. 

What he doesn't know about Hannibal could fill the Library of Congress several times over. He doesn't know that in the quiet moments between dinner conversation one of the most dangerous men on the eastern seaboard looks at him and remembers in some small way what it was to care if someone lived or died. He doesn’t know that the good Doctor remembers snow on the trees in black forests and sweet smelling wild flowers that stretched from his family's land halfway to the next castle.

Hannibal watches Will takes another bite of a spiced meat dumpling in a rich cream sauce and smiles, knowing he hasn't the foggiest that he is having his first taste of Lithuanian cuisine, a recipe he has never made for another person, alive or dead. He thinks of the dark humor in the idea that the only way he has been able to open any part of himself or acknowledge that he has been truly seen is to live on the knife's edge from day to day, allowing this expert explorer of the fringes of humanity, a profiler who hunts for him daily into his bed and into his life. 

Hannibal knows that one day his FBI agent may have to die, that not even for the moments of quiet he finds with Will Graham would he trade his own life and freedom. But Will doesn't know, and for now it is enough. 

 

Will wishes he could remember the details of the story better, if Persephone grew to care for Hades or just accepted her fate. He thinks of the pomegranate seeds in his belly, imagines them sprouting, growing roots and leaves that bind his body to the chair, making him a permanent part of the more elegant interior that surrounds him. He doesn't know that love will ever have anything to do with the two of them. That word is for parents and children, for people that want to marry or spend their lives together. No part of him is that far deluded.  
Hannibal shakes him from his reverie by asking him about the wine, a drop of it shining like old blood on his smiling lips.  
He may not be Persephone but he knows the truth of them, of this tenuous, bloody dance between them. They are inexorably bound together in some unseen, sinister way that no two people have been since the world was a much more savage place.


End file.
